


My Name On Your Fingers

by thefudge



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Coming of Age, Dark, F/F, F/M, and tom is fluid af, her sexuality is tom, young woman exploring her sexuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2016-05-20
Packaged: 2018-06-09 16:27:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6914629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefudge/pseuds/thefudge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What is that on your fingers, Ginevra?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Name On Your Fingers

_All my letters are_  
_Returned to sender_  
_For eternity_  
_You're a part of me (Annie - Anthonio)_

 

She’s twelve, and home for Christmas. The months have made her legs thinner. She looks like a skittish colt. She comes in from the snow dragging her weary shadow, but her cheeks are flushed and she is smiling, so everything must be all right. Bill ruffles her hair, Fred and George raise her up in their arms and carry her like a trophy to the living room. She sits next to the Christmas tree and opens presents.

But then, at Christmas dinner, their mother mentions she’s been to Diagon Alley to buy Percy new robes, because it’s a given he will be elected Head Boy next year, and she’s so proud of her “sharp young man”. Everyone at the table has a laugh at his expense. Percy turns red. And then Molly says to Arthur,

“You should see poor Tom. He told me he’s having trouble with his leg again. Afraid they might have to amputate it.”  

It’s only as she climbs the fifth step up the stairs after excusing herself abruptly that she realizes her mother was talking about the landlord of Leaky Cauldron.

By now it’s too late, and she’s run all the way to her small room, so small that the air inside it swelters, even though there is frosting on the window pane.

She careens on the bed, forcing herself to cry, to get it over with, so she can return to dinner. But no tears come. She is angry, more than sad. And this heat turns her skin into that flaming red she despises.

She twists and turns in bed, stuffs a pillow in her mouth and bites down.

The feeling doesn’t go away, it never does.

She lies there and thinks only of the name, not the person. The name is enough. And truly, there _was_ no person.

Whatever he was, ghost, memory, demon, he vanished into a burst of light. He failed.

 

_Have I?_

She scratches her stomach, where it seems to hurt the most. It’s a slow gnawing, a hunger that can only be sated with touch, not food. She lets her fingers slide over the knoll of her pelvis. It feels ticklish against the stocking. She rolls it down gently. The wool leaves red marks behind.

She stays like that for a minute, half-undressed, ransacked.

It’s different when she lowers her hand in her underwear. The place is dark and damp. She scratches, uncertain. Her fingers don’t know what to do. It still hurts.

 _Make it stop_ , she begs.

There is a force guiding her fingers now. The shadow is her own, this is her flesh. There is no one in this room.

“Tom,” she whispers, and it only takes a second stroke to come.

 

 

She’s frightened by orgasms. She doesn’t know what they are called. But those precious ten seconds (she’s counted) feel like her mother’s knife slicing through the carrots. Molly simply waves her wand indifferently, and the blade falls down mercilessly on her innocent garden. It cuts and cuts and cuts.

 

 

It only takes his name, ushered through moist lips, and she’s a carrot, red and muddy from head to toe. She brushes her teeth in the bathroom and she slips out his name (“Tom…”) accidentally. She has to sit down on the toilet seat. She has to squeeze her thighs. And in her room, his name on her fingers.

 

 

_“Please, Tom…I don’t want to die,” the eleven-year old sniffs._

_“You won’t die, Ginevra. You’re only giving me a soul and a body.”_

_“But…but that’s everything! What will I have left?” she moans, fingers bloody from the chicken whose neck she’s wrung._

_“You will always have me.”_

 

And so, she does.

 

 

She is thirteen and she’s danced the night away with Neville Longbottom at the Yule Ball. Her dress clings to her back. The sweat has turned her aquamarine folds into a dirty country green. She treks up the stone stairs like a tired animal.

She does not hear the strange gasps coming from the Boys’ Dormitory.

Neville is struggling in his sleep. A hand claws at his throat, squeezing the aorta and sending blood gushing to his brain. The shadow reminds him of his parents, the hospital beds, the candy wrappers, the threadbare suffering. He cries and chokes on his saliva. When he wakes in the morning, it feels like he’s sleepwalked.

Ginny mumbles goodnights to her room mates. She wonders if Neville will ask her on a proper date. She doesn’t like him that way, but it would be nice to have someone to go with to Hogsmeade.

She’s still giddy from the ball, heaven knows why. Perhaps she is becoming someone who can dance and be giddy. The past means to dance and be giddy. That’s how you make it _the past_.

She opens the window in the tower and stares at the inky sky. Nothing seems to live there. Charlie once told her the stars they gaze upon have long died and these are just the tragic smears they left behind, the ashes and dust of their soul.

She sits in the window seat, lets her hand dangle out like the wing of a bird.

She closes her eyes, stupidly.

 

He is tearing off the buttons with a basilisk fang. Her dress comes undone, her small chest spills out to her shame. She looks like a murder, interrupted by a miracle.

The floor is as cold as she remembers. Heads of serpents, severed before they ever grew strong. The water gets between her toes.

She can’t see his face, but his breath is on her breasts. His tongue is almost there and she arches her back against his mouth, letting the water drag mud over her ankles, but he only laughs in her ear.

_Get rid of the boy._

 

 

“I’m sorry, Neville. I’m not feeling well, so I won’t be going to Hogsmeade at all.”

“Ah, ’s all right, Ginny.”

She doesn’t see the marks on his throat. He’s covered them with a scarf.

 

 

She’s fourteen and she’s playing against Ravenclaw. The broomstick feels clumsy between her legs. She wonders if that aching nub below is a black hole that sucks everything in. Maybe her twat killed the stars.

She’s learned that word from George. Read it on a slip of paper he left behind in his room.

_Her twat was glistening._

She wonders if she’s cursed.

Cho Chang flies around her in circles, won’t let her get through. She sees the Snitch on the horizon, golden hummingbird. But the girl blocks her every time with an almost absent determination. Her eyes are sunken in, her mouth is set in a hard line. She’s not going to let the inexperienced Fourth-Year beat her to the punch.

Ginny admits to herself this is a losing game, but she hopes to stall Cho long enough for her team to score a decent number of goals.

She stretches her sweaty fingers inside her leather gloves. She wants to take them out. She wants to sink her hand in Cho’s hair and drag her down with her and bite into that pretty cheek. Maybe then she’ll stop crying for her stupid boyfriend _and accept that Tom Marvolo Riddle weeds out the weak and Cedric Diggory was only another body in his path…_

She whirls her head when Cho Chang screams.

She’s spinning madly in mid-air, holding on to her broomstick for dear life. Cho slips and falls.

Roger Davies manages to blunt her fall.

Ginny throws up on her leather gloves. The match is annulled.

 

She goes to the infirmary to visit Cho. She’s bought her some sherbet from _Honeydukes_. She doesn’t actually _know_ if Cho likes sherbet. It’s strawberry pink. It looks like someone scooped out a tongue into a bowl. But it smells nice. She’s brought her the Potions homework too.  

 She wants to tell her _– what? I’m sorry? It wasn’t me?_

A Ravenclaw boy is sitting at Cho’s bedside. His name is Michael Corner and he greets Ginny with an apologetic smile. As if he’s the one who made a girl fall from the sky.

_I didn’t._

“Rotten luck, eh? But she hasn’t been playing all right ever since – well, ever since Cedric.”

Desperately, Ginny asks him out to Hogsmeade.

 

 

_My silly girl. Why would you do that?_

She doesn’t have an answer ready, although she can think of many.

_You want me to hurt him, don’t you?_

“Tom, Tom, _Tom_ …” she pants, as he shows her what he’ll do to the Ravenclaw boy. She sees Michael cornered in an alley, she sees his face rammed into a brick wall. She sees blood pouring from his nostrils down his throat, into his blue-bronze scarf.

She hears Michael beg for it to stop. His teeth look like pomegranate seeds.  

But Tom drags his tongue around her navel and she only moans, “ _More_.”

 

Michael shows up at the second DA meeting with a black eye. Ginny badgers him with questions, but he pushes her hand away and says it’s nothing.

Harry is helping a still disoriented Cho Chang get a grip on her wand movements. She’s fresh out of the Infirmary and she’s unsteady on her feet. Harry slips a hand under the girl’s arm. Ginny can’t see very well, the Room of Requirement is too large. She should feel jealous that Harry pays so much attention to her, but perhaps she’s jealous that Cho blushes so quickly when Harry Potter grips her wrist.

 

 

Michael tells her he can get them inside one of the Prefects’ bathrooms. They could take a bath together. Wouldn’t that be nice?

“Anthony Goldstein owes me a favour. Come on. You’ll like it.”

She obsesses over swimsuits. She’s got no idea what to wear. She asks Demelza Robins, who tells her flat-out not to go for a bath with Michael.

“He’s going to take advantage of you.”

It’s a familiar refrain. Boys take advantage of you. You can’t help but sit and let them do it. It’s in your nature. _You_ never take advantage.

She mulls over it for a night. She doesn’t touch herself. She saves herself, almost.

 

She’s got water between her toes, but it’s not cold and muddy. Michael splashes her, spits water on her scalp, she shrieks and beats him with her fists. He tickles her ribs and runs his hand along her thigh. She dunks his head playfully.

He grabs her waist and pulls her with him.

The tub is a large black hole, a cylinder made of golden thread. She falls deeper and deeper, the water rushing all around her. Her skin is mottled, soaked to the bone. She’s suddenly old and grey. Water rushes out of her mouth and eyes and nose.

And Michael’s nowhere.

Her pretty red hair floats above like seaweed and she smells salt and death.

“Tom.” Bubbles float up to the surface and he’s caught her in his arms. She’d recognize those scales anywhere. His serpent mouth bites her neck and the incisors reach into the marrow. She leans into him and feels his fingers on her clit, those beautiful piano fingers.

_Taste yourself, Ginny._

He sticks a finger in her mouth and she chokes on the sweetness.

He’s kissing her shoulder, warm lips on collarbone – but no, it’s not him.

She blinks at the jet-black hair that coils around her wrists like vine. Cho Chang is sticking her tongue down her throat.

 _I can be generous, Ginevra,_ he rasps in her ear.

They float together in the middle of a great liquid abyss.

 

 

When she comes to, Michael is pumping water out of her chest. She’s lying on the bathroom floor. His face is a giant blur, big nose, red mouth, black eye. He’s freaking out.

Her cheeks break into a water-spouting grin.

They break up after that, because Michael is too spooked by the sight of almost-drowning Ginny.

“What even happened? We were having fun one moment, and the next you were lying at the bottom of the tub.”

She can’t offer an explanation, which frankly infuriates him. Never should have dated a Gryffindor in the first place.

Cho Chang doesn’t even know how hard Ginny kissed her back. Cho Chang doesn’t even know her.

 

 

She’s fifteen and the Slug Club is a bore. She’s met the vampire, she’s talked to Luna, she’s said hi to Harry. She should not feel this kind of ennui at a party. She’s got a little black number on, she’s carefully done her hair, she’s flirting left and right, she’s confident, she’s _got_ this.

Ginny Weasley is a feisty one, they’ll say.  She got into the Club by hexing someone until bloody bats came out of his nose. She’s got fire in her veins.

She leans against Slughorn’s trophy cabinet and she doesn’t feel like fire. She feels like ice, melting sadly on the floor, running down into the mouths of sewers, becoming dregs, lingering in the pipes, waiting to hear the basilisk’s hiss one more time.

 She knows there’s something wrong with her, this isn’t a question of if. But _how_ does this madness coalesce so perfectly in one teenage body? Shouldn’t it _show_?

Dean Thomas is his name. She’s going to be honest with you and admit she chose him for his last name.

 _Thomas_ , she calls him jokingly.

 _Weasley_ , he replies gamely, thinking this is an intimate repartee only they share.

The first time he takes off her bra, she whispers “Thomas” against his ear lobe.

“Gin,” he responds, lowering her on the bed.

She likes _Gin_ , she could get used to Gin.

He kisses her face sloppily and tries to pinch a nipple between his fingers.

“Ouch, Thomas.”

“ _Ginevra_ ,” he whispers apologetically, rubbing his thumb over the sensitive flesh.

She slips away and stutters an apology. “I have to go.”

 She doesn’t return to the Boys’ Dormitory.

He’s all right with waiting. He says it’s romantic. She couldn’t agree more.

 

Dean’s not here tonight. She could have invited him, but she did not want to subject him to such a drab show. She stirs her cocktail idly, wondering about some Transfiguration essay she’s yet to start.

Someone slips next to her, smelling of shame and desire.

“Hey. Hiding from Slughorn, are you?”

It’s Harry, running a hand through that unruly hair of his.  

“Oh, Merlin, should I?”

“Well, he’s trying to embarrass us all.”

“You’re his golden boy, so I’m not too worried,” she replies, shifting from one foot to the other. Her feet must be bleeding. She hates these heels, but when she got dressed in the afternoon, she felt him behind her, his cock pressing into her back, and she heard him whispering in her ear,

_Wear them._

Her madness is stuffed in her uncomfortable shows like an old napkin, and it makes her giggle.

“What’s got you laughing?”

“Might be a bit drink.”

“I don’t think there’s any alcohol in those cocktails,” Harry points out.

“Oh, don’t ruin my fun, _Potter_.”

She didn’t mean to call him that. It’s a reflex, like calling Dean, _Thomas_.

But Harry’s neither curious, nor apprehensive. He’s _interested_. He thinks she’s flirting. He’s got a certain gleam in his eye. Perhaps it’s the red Christmas lights.

 _Bollocks_ , she hears herself say. Because in this angle, at this _very_ minute, she looks exactly like him.

_Shite._

She never noticed this bizarre reflection. Never saw their unvarnished similarities. They are both cut from the same marble, only the features have been chiseled by different hands.

Harry Potter and Voldemort, a young boy and a decrepit carcass of a wizard.

Harry Potter and Tom Riddle. Two polished sides of the same coin. Mirror-brothers, if you like.  

Except for the eyes. He’s got no red in them.

Suddenly, his hand lands on her elbow. “Come on, I think I see Hermione.”

 

 

_On your knees, Ginevra._

_Tom. Let me see your face._

_Not tonight, my sweet._

 

She’s in the kitchen at the Burrow, her family is having breakfast in the other room (she can hear Ron complaining about toast) and Tom Riddle is fucking her against the sink. She holds onto his tie for dear life. He’s got one hand wrapped in her hair. Close to the climax, she launches her body head-first into those red pools. Oh Merlin, his fucking red eyes - fucking her.

“Do you like that, Ginevra?”

She wakes up sore.

 

 

She’s sixteen and Harry Potter is kissing her, lips shuttered, eyes closed. She has to breathe quietly, one nostril at a time. She doesn’t want to disturb his short bliss. He feels like his dad. He picked a hearty redhead for a bride. He’s convinced they’ll reunite, be a family. She wants to believe she’ll let him. Because no one in this bloody castle, no one in this bloody world, looks like Tom this much.

And when you can’t have the original, a faithful copy is just as good.

Just as.

 

 

She can hear the broomsticks whistling past her ear. The goalpost is empty. There’s no one on the field. It’s almost dawn. The castle is dark in the distance, but the first sunrays turn his face pink. Tom is lying naked in the grass, one knee raised towards the sky, head tilted back, carefree and proud. The dark hair between his legs hypnotizes her.

She can’t describe the feeling. She wants to take him in her mouth. But she doesn’t want to spoil the view.

 

 

She doesn’t touch herself anymore, because at night, she hears her classmates crying in their pillow and it would be selfish to turn to solitary pleasure while Hogwarts is burning. Self-gratification must wait for peace.

But Tom doesn’t wait for peace. He accosts her in a dark corridor, making her want to turn to the Room of Requirement. She imagines the room would turn into a giant serpent, swallowing her, eating her, chewing her, digesting her slowly.

He slams her body into the wall, raises her legs over his shoulders. She’s a trapeze, jumping from class to class, day to day, getting fucked barren, getting filled with him.

Neville asks her if she’s afraid. “I mean, you’re so brave. I’ve never seen you cry. And well…he…he possessed you, and d’you think, if he ever does take the castle –”

She hugs him and tells him she’s very afraid, actually.

 

 

Voldemort will never hurt her, she knows that much. The old man worships her. And his young self tortures her. Not much of a difference there.

 

 

She’s twenty-one and she’s getting an abortion. She hasn’t told Harry anything and she doesn’t expect to. But she plans to surprise him with a home-cooked dinner tonight. Then, as he’s digging into the chicken curry she’ll sigh despondently and break the news to him. “My period came.”

“Oh.”

He’ll want a drink before going to bed, maybe even a cry in the shower. They’ve been trying for the better part of a year. He’s almost obsessed with having a child. He probably thinks they’re not a real family until she’s pushed out a squealing mess on the operating table.

But she’s not going to do that. She’s not going to bring another pretty little redhead into this world. Because she will inherit her mother’s madness, her mother’s appetites. And that won’t do.

Tom agrees wholeheartedly. He says he will eat her children. He will wring their little necks, break their baby skulls against the dungeon floor. They’re not her. They could never be. They are a mongrel perversion. Not sweet, dirty little Ginevra, _all mine._

_All yours._

 

“Did you go and see this mediwitch, then? Is it true?”

“How – how do you know about this?”

“Hermione told me she saw your name registered in St. Mungo’s files.”

“Hermione should mind her business.”

“ _Ginevra_!”

She shudders from head to toe. “What did you call me?”

She’s never seen him like this, so angry, so disillusioned, so betrayed. So goddamn delectable.

“Tell me now, for Merlin’s sake!” he shouts, pupils dilating.

 “Yes! Are you happy? Yes, I did it! I don’t want it! I don’t want your child!”

He slams his fist down on the dining table and the wood cracks under the pressure.

If Harry Potter grabbed her by the hair right now and tossed her on that table and had his way with her, she’d take his seed, she’d have his fucking baby.

But he doesn’t. The Horcrux has shriveled and died. Harry Potter folds back, hurt and ashamed.

He holds his purple fist to his chest and cries, seeking her out. “I’m so sorry, Ginny! I shouldn’t have –”

She walks out of the room.

 

 

Harry reaches for her in the middle of the night. He rubs his nose against her nape, puts an arm across her waist and whispers “let’s not fight” into her shoulder blades.

“Please, Ginny. Look at me. You know you can always talk to me. You should have told me you didn’t want this. I would have understood, I –”

“I know, Harry. I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have hid it from you,” she responds mechanically.

They kiss for a while, dry lips, parched throats.

He asks her quietly if she’d like him to prepare a birth control potion and Ginny’s heart breaks a little because this man, this _boy_ will do anything to please her. Just not the one thing she needs.

“Sure, love.”

His face breaks into a relieved grin. She downs the potion, feeling her insides grow hard like stone. He settles on top of her, cloyingly warm.

They have sex the way children mash their toys together rhythmically. It’s comforting, like the dance they shared at the wedding, heads on each other’s shoulders, promises of eternal companionship.

Harry comes before she does, but he pistons into her gently, waiting for Ginny to find her cliff and jump.

Her eyes wander to the ceiling in a soft prayer.

_Please, let me love him a little bit._

_I could not even if I wanted to,_ he slithers in her veins. _You gave me your body and soul._

 _And I’ve got nothing in return!_ she protests with tears on her tongue.

Her head is slammed against the pillow. Harry’s fingers suddenly clamp down on her throat and squeeze hard. She can’t breathe. He’s got a lopsided smile in the dark, and his eyes…she can’t see them anymore, because he’s plunging deep inside her, fucking her eye-sight, fucking her hearing, fucking her smell, fucking her touch, until her senses are nothing, she is nothing.

“You’ll always have me.”

 

 

She's twelve and she's got her underwear around her ankles.

_What is that on your fingers, Ginevra?_

**Author's Note:**

> If you've reached this point - welcome friend, welcome to Trashlandia. I hope your stay is long and fruitful.
> 
> PS. @sinsinnatus, what's good?


End file.
